A Poem

I have long loved the poetry of Alexander Pushkin, since high school really. So here's one; for some reason it strikes a cord inside tonight, though I admit I don't think I've ever really paid this one much attention until now.

The Prophet

by Alexander Pushkin, written in 1824.

Parched with the spirit's thirst, I crossed
An endless desert sunk in gloom,
And a six-winged seraph came
Where the tracks met and I stood lost.
Fingers light as dream he laid
Upon my lids; I opened wide
My eagle eyes, and gazed around.
He laid his fingers on my ears
And they were filled with roaring sound:
I heard the music of the spheres,
The flight of angels through the skies,
The beasts that crept beneath the sea,
The heady uprush of the vine;
And, like a lover kissing me,
He rooted out this tongue of mine
Fluent in lies and vanity;
He tore my fainting lips apart
And, with his right hand steeped in blood,
He armed me with a serpent's dart;
With his bright sword he split my breast;
My heart leapt to him with a bound;
A glowing livid coal he pressed
Into the hollow of the wound.
There in the desert I lay dead,
And God called out to me and said:
'Rise, prophet, rise, and hear, and see,
And let my works be seen and heard
By all who turn aside from me,
And burn them with my fiery word.'

To see more of his poems, go HERE.

Also, I'm not really sure why it seems to have hyperlinked the title, because I didn't tell it to... :-/

A Poem I Wrote In High School

This is a poem I wrote back in high school. Thought I'd share. Please remember that you MAY NOT reproduce this poem in ANY form without my express written consent.

Dancing With the Devil

Soft spoken words slide under the skin

Sharp as a knife, yet soft as silk.

A gentle touch glides over my body

The cool burning followed by fiery ice

To send shivers down the spine.

Mesmerizing, intoxicating,

Your words and imagery stay lodged in my mind

Wickedly whispered promises

Blow gently o'er my ear

Your lips curved in soft sardonic smile,

A velvet brush across my cheek

Your eyes glitter with shining promise

As you lean in to deliver your devil's kiss

You've won my heart, stolen my soul

And now to seal it with a kiss

It's only after I've become the empty shell,

Overrun with flowing emotion,

That I fully realize -

I've been dancing with the devil.

© Lore of http://inthelandofnod.blogspot.com

Poetry, a musing.

In grade twelve my Writer's Craft teacher (who was also my archery coach) told me my poetry was full of "emotional splats," and that poetry should be refined and smooth - write a journal entry first, and then write the poem after. Needless to say, I didn't take his advice (I have a horrible time writing journal entries, I really do. Blogs are a bit different, but not by much. It mainly comes down to I can type faster than I can write by hand, and I can keep up with my thoughts.) It didn't matter a lot, he even said so himself - he was cool like that. He knew artists and writers needed their own styles and methods, and unlike a couple of my English teachers, was very specific about what he wanted to see in assignments and what NEEDED to be in each thing to make it the thing he was asking us to write, but other than that, pretty much everything was free game.

I did take what he said somewhat to heart, but not until after high school. Rereading poems I saw what he meant, but at the same time, I wasn't about to change the poems. Mainly because I figured that would change the meaning of what most of them were about. But it also got me thinking. Poetry is rather like sex. Some is smooth and refined, sensual; some is rough and raw. Others seduce you, and some just surprise you. Some are combinations, some are short, others are long. Some start hot, and stay hot, others start hot and fizzle to nothing. Some are written full of love, others meaningless and full of revenge. I could keep going, but I don't think it's necessary haha.

And of course now that I've written this I see the same thing I see when I try writing journal entries... and I think it comes from my English classes where everything was supposed to have a point/specific purpose, like an essay. We did A LOT of essay writing... yeah...

And now, a photo, which probably has very little to do with this post, but in some round about way it does...

The Image of I

The following poem is the result of an exercise in my grade 12 writer's craft class. We had to read this poem by Margaret Atwood called "This is a Photograph of Me." Anyways, the purpose was to write a poem about ourselves or something... basically if someone found a picture of you, what would it look like. Or something like that... Anyways, I FINALLY found the poem I wrote for it, and thought I'd actually post it. And with a picture too, because I like pictures - blogs without pictures just aren't as interesting :p Also, I ganked the image from some iPhone website lol. Credit to the original artist and all that. Beautiful piece. I wish I knew who the artist was, actually. Eeeee horsie! lol.


The Image of I
by Lore Challis ©

At the bottom of a puddle lies a picture
I guess it fell out of someone's belongings,
As they rushed into the great unknown
They happen to inhabit.

It's somewhat faded
And lines cross the surface of delicate paper,
Evidence of abuse and discare.
And along one edge is wear of teeth and burns.

It's an image hurt, and beyond repair.

Removed from the puddle
The image shines with an inner brilliance...
An inky black mare,
Rears against a threat in proud defiance,
And what the threat is, is pushed aside.
The invasion of humanity, a threat to life itself.

Tall buildings enroach on her land,
Reminders of the scaring capture,
Where abuse lives in their hands.
A silent killer lurks towards,
Pollution clouds to clog her lungs,
Like words to bury in the head,
Abuse from those that are on top.

The threat has stilled, she turns and runs
Avoiding the fight if she can.
Unworthy opponents they are all,
Yet the most dangerous, sadly.

A streak of black on jewelled tones
Her hooves are thunder's rings
She sticks out, but no one sees
The caution flaming in her eyes.

None dare approach without their warning
For she does turn with short hesitance to attack
Striking friend and foe
A loner from all she knows
There's no where to fit in.

And so she moves,
Alone and lost
She's moving through life
Awaiting the day when
Humanity will take her life away.

*Poem may not be reproduced in any form without the written consent of the author.*